


The Language of Touch

by kaeorin



Series: Loki's Lullabies [127]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Affection, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff, Love, M/M, POV Loki (Marvel), Reader-Insert, Slice of Life, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:08:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25621123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeorin/pseuds/kaeorin
Summary: Loki likes touching you. He likes touching you alot.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Reader
Series: Loki's Lullabies [127]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678240
Comments: 14
Kudos: 204





	The Language of Touch

More than he ever would have expected—more than _anyone_ ever would have expected, probably—he loved touching you. Somehow, with every tiny brush of your skin against his, you found a way to remind him of your love for him. He had a reputation for being good with words, of course, but you were so much better, and you didn’t need to speak at all. 

In the mornings, when the dim light peeking in around your curtains gradually grew brighter, more golden, he would often catch himself just staring at you as you slept. During the night, you would tuck yourself securely against him, so sometimes it wasn’t easy for him to see your face, but he would move just enough to make it easier to take in your sweet profile, and he’d just...gaze at you. You slept deeply. Securely. Like you trusted him not to hurt you in the night, or, perhaps more accurately, like you trusted him to look after you. He didn’t like waking you before you were ready to wake up, but he could only rarely resist the urge to touch you. He’d draw the tip of one finger along the perfect line of your nose then drop his touch a little lower to touch your lips. Often, you’d sigh in your sleep, that sweet, breathy sound that he came to love so dearly. If he didn’t put enough weight into his touch, or if you were in too light a stage of sleep, sometimes your brow would furrow and you’d try to pull your head away. Here and there you even brought your hand up to slap his away. Even that made him smile, and he’d place his arm around your waist again and whisper soft words of love into your ear.

When you finally woke in the morning, you would give a great stretch, allowing every muscle in your body to grow long and taut. It was hard to resist digging his fingers into your side in those moments, hard _not_ to make you flinch and giggle when he tickled you, but, when he did, you rewarded him by turning to face him so you could give him a soft, sleepy smile. As much as you liked to get out of bed immediately and get on with the day, he could still usually convince you to lie around with him for a little while. He would take your hand and lace his fingers through yours and simply marvel at the way it looked when he held you. 

When the day wore on, and you finally extracted yourself from the bed and from Loki’s reverence, he still found other ways to touch you. He liked to creep up behind you while you were brushing your teeth so that he could pull you backwards until you were once again pressed solidly to his chest. He liked to slip his hand beneath your shirt and splay his fingers wide against the warm skin of your belly. He liked to touch you there, not only because your skin was so delicate, so soft, but also because he could feel the muscles in your abdomen tightening sometimes. Maybe it was some kind of punishment, maybe some kind of reassurance, but he liked knowing that, as open and fearless as you could be with him, your body still had some good sense. Your body still tensed sometimes, prepared to shield you from an attack—or simply from more tickling. He liked to hold you like that, and lower his head to take gentle nibbles of the skin where your neck met your shoulders, until you laughed and gently pushed him away so you could rinse your mouth out.

Many days, you would set up your laptop on your kitchen table. You told him that it was easier to focus when you were in a less-comfortable chair. You said it was more like the office. He’d leave you to work in peace—mostly. He did like to duck in here and there and remind you not to work too hard. He’d come in for a cup of tea, and make one for you while he was at it. He’d come in in search of a snack and be sure to offer some of it to you. And near the end of the day, when spending the afternoon on his own was beginning to wear on him, he’d come into the kitchen and stand behind you and rub your shoulders. You never lasted long when he started that. Still, it was gratifying when he heard you let out a long sigh of relief and then reach up to close your computer. It felt like a victory. He’d rescued you from the jaws of data-entry, and brought you back safely into the world inside your home. 

It hadn’t occurred to him to like giving you massages. He’d been on the receiving end of more than his fair share. When he was younger, and in the palace, and still desperate to encourage his reputation as a monster, asking for a massage was an easy, though seemingly harmless, way to make the servants look nervous. He regretted that now, a little, but there was nothing he could realistically do about it. So instead he took to working his fingers into the knots in your perfect body. You carried so much tension in your neck and shoulders. It seemed like he could spend hours working your muscles until they were smooth and relaxed and then, just a few days later, you were all bound up again. It was hard to blame you. Your world was going through changes the likes of which your people had not seen in generations. So he did not give you too hard a time about working too hard or worrying too much, only took renewed satisfaction out of the way he felt you relax every time he touched you.

In the evenings, after dinner, he came to appreciate the routine that the two of you fell into. You nearly always wound up retiring to the sofa. He loved the way you curled in against him. Sometimes you’d reach up and pull on his arm to get him to put it around you—not because he _didn’t want to_ but because maybe sometimes he liked to know that _you_ wanted him to. He liked your head on his shoulder. He liked the smell of your hair. He could spend whole nights sitting there like that, feeling the warmth of you. 

He’d work his fingers through your hair. You did that to him so often, and it felt so good, that it was the least he could do to return the favor. He took some silly satisfaction in the pleasure of smoothing out all the little tangles and snags that the day had worked into your hair. He would comb carefully through your hair until it was silk between his fingers again. It always made you melt against him. You would hide your face in his chest in hopes of muffling your quiet groans, but they made their way to his ears anyway. Often you’d tighten your fingers in his shirt like he could possibly have the strength to move away from you. You would gasp out his name, whimper, sigh, and every time you did it made a thrill run through him. It was so easy for him to reduce you to wordless pleasure.

Often, things took on a slightly sharper edge, and you found your way into the bedroom. Intimacy with you was, of course, something he treasured, something he savored, You were perhaps the first partner he’d ever had whose pleasure and enjoyment felt even more important than his own. He’d spent so much of his life being so selfish. But with you, it was easy to be selfless. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you, couldn’t stop soaking in the feelings and sounds of your pleasure. It made him proud to leave you breathless. 

And after that, when you collapsed into his arms or you dragged him down on top of you, he loved that too. He listened to the sound of your heartbeat and the sound of your breathing and relished the sweat that cooled on his skin. Each of you traced abstract patterns into the other’s skin when you laid together afterwards, and somehow, even after all this time, you still found new things to talk about. You made him laugh. You made him want to grip your face gently between his palms and smother you with kisses. You fought sleep almost every single night. He’d hear exhaustion creep into your voice and he’d see the way your eyelids began to droop, but you pushed it all away so many times that he’d lost count. And you did it only because you wanted to talk to him. Like all the other things about you, it filled him with a sense of pride, of belonging. But, almost every night, he pushed that to the side so he could cover your eyes with his hand and tell you gently to go to sleep. Morning would come soon enough, he’d remind you, and you both could wake up refreshed and ready to spend another day together, but only if you _slept_ tonight.

You put up a fight, because you always put up a fight, but it never took long before his careful touch and his quiet voice lulled you to sleep. He’d kiss your forehead and pull the covers up over your shoulder and hold you safely all night long, until the skies began to lighten once more behind your curtains.


End file.
